Haircuts are Awkward and Annoying

"I said only cut the sides....THE SIDES...NO...STOP....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Besides going to the Dentist's for a nauseating cleaning where I have to listen to the smarmy hygienist rave about her son's accomplishments, or the Doctor's where I have to go through the overly embarrassing experience that is a "physical," getting my haircut it probably the most traumatic thing I do on a regular basis.

You know what it's like. You walk in, immediately noticing all of the bright and beautiful faces plastering the walls, all affixed with perfect hairstyles. You think to yourself, "that's going to be me!" Of course, it never is.

Then, the sullen and usually unkempt barber slithers up to you, a deep sense of disdain hidden behind the glassy orbs they have for eyes. If they're young, they're probably wishing they were out bar hopping with friends, and generally treat you like dirt, or worse (seriously, cheer up, at least you're making money, moron). If they're old, they look at you like you're intruding on their territory, waiting for you to slip up in your speech so they can make some jackass-y comment that only somebody with years of wisdom and life experience can make.

Anyways, they take your name and you sit down. You wait there, twiddling your thumbs. If you're unlucky, like me, there'll be some young kid getting their hair cut with their dunce of a mom hovering over the barber's every move. "No, little Johnny likes his bangs at this length! Oh and don't cut it a centimeter too short or you get no tip!" Sit down lady! Your kid won't even notice his hair was cut, go read a magazine or something and pretend you're in your twenties again.

The little kids always take the longest. Luckily, when those brats are through, you finally get called up. You stand, ready to brave the perils of that maniacal contraption they call a "chair."

When you finally sit, an icy chill runs up your spine as you look in the mirror. "Oh no...she's going to talk to me...isn't she," you think in horror. And sure enough, they do.

It can range from general small talk, to, in my case, a shouting match over how I want my hair to be cut.

"Lady, how many times do I have to tell you, DON'T TOUCH THE TOP!"


At which point I grab her wrist, snap it, and run out the store. No but really, that'll happen some day.

After I convince them to begrudgingly conform to what I want, and not whatever their Lovecraftian School of Haircut Horrors taught them to do, I start relaxing.

Usually at that point the small talk ends, as they put on the finishing touches, and I start thinking about how annoying all those dagger edged hair corpses will feel on the back of my neck. 

Finally, the buzzing stops and I go to pay. Unsurprisingly, the grizzled barber lights up like Al Gore at a climate change convention when I tip them. Where was all that niceness when you were cutting my hair? I swear, there should be some obvious button you can press while you're sitting in the chair of broken dreams that informs the barber you intend to tip them. Maybe then they would stop mocking my social awkwardness and intractable requests (really, is "cut the sides and not the top THAT hard to acquiesce to?")

In the end it was all worth it, because my hair was getting all poofy and in the summertime that's a drag (literally and figuratively). All this being said, in three to four more weeks, I shall return, to face the same unimaginable terrors I endured today.

Oh well. To quote the eleventh Doctor..."GERONIMO!"